E 



LIZABETHAN 
DAYS 



H. W. Shoemaker 




Class _ 
Bonk H9 




CopghtN°____Jf 



COPYR5GHT DEPOSIT 




tBy 



HENRY W. SHOEMAKER 

Author of Pennsylvania Mountain Stories, Pennsylvania 
Mountain Verses, etc. 

Copyrighted 



PUBLISHED BY 
The Bright Printing Company, Reading, Pa. 

1912 






;- 



£*CI.A312225 



^ 




ELIZABETHAN DAYS 

MISTY night two winters past 
Discolored snow is melting fast, 
A street that stretches up a rise 
And blends itself into the midnight skies, 
Crosses a bridge above the tracks, 
Where now a noisy engine backs : 
And rows of tiny lanterns, white and green, 
Give to the rails a silvery sheen, 
Glimmering through the foggy pall 
Clear to the great, gloomy terminal. 
A street lamp with a weary look, 
A gutter gurgling like a brook, 
And high above unsteady at this hour 
Arc lights are blinking by the Tower ; 
A mellow odor from the dripping trees, 
A distant church bell tolls eternities, 
And all deserted is the dismal street. 
We are alone, our isolation is complete ; 
We pause to gaze down on the shining cut ; 
"There's something I would tell you — but' 
Said you, "but I'll say nothing now." 
I'd thought of something too, yet how 
To say it had perplexed my mind 
And to the future I was blind — 
A pusher engine's wave of smoke 
Our midnight reverie awoke. 
We passed along, both left unsaid 
The words that in our souls we read, 

3 



.y> 



Each satisfied that we would meet 
Full many a time, and then repeat 
With confidence that is not bold 
The sweetest story ever told. 
I left you at your steps, and nevermore 
Was I to near that sacred door ; 
But still I see you when in dreaming ways 
And live again Elizabethan Days. 
December 11, 1911. 




PASSING BY 

HE little country village where you live, 

At mid-day when the train came in 
And stopped, I gazed out through the open sash 

Across the fields and groves of linn 
Which line the sauntering, shrunken stream ; 

The trees were tinted by the early fall 
And had lost leaves enough to show a gleam 

Of the quiet main street and the old hotel 
Near where in some deep shaded bower 
Your cottage stands — you were at this same hour 
Unmindful of my nearness, how my heart beat fast 
Inspired by fond memories of the happy past — 
Perchance it be a shadow crossed your path 
As if cast by a bird in flight above the trees 
At this same moment, and a thought of me 
Vibrates your spirit, and has vanished instantly. 

The car-trucks creak, the train is moving on 
Along the calm valley of the cloudless skies, 
But I had flashed a message forth 
The message of the love that never dies ! 
September 8, 1908. 



AT THE BRONX 

r\ Sis H, let me live again that winter day ; 

^ The little horse stood by the door impatiently 
'Till we got in, and through the Park we flew — 
And I was happy, that was all I knew ! 

Oh, let me live again that winter day ; 
How soon we reached the Zoo and put away 
Our modest trap, and in the gate we went — 
On this, the happiest day I ever spent ! 

Oh, let me live again that winter day ; 

How well I cherish every word you'd say. 

We paused before a cage of doves, quoth you — 

"They're redder breasts than heart's blood hue." 

Oh, let me live again that winter day ; 
Closing time came, when we must turn away. 
I looked at you, your beauty breathed in me — 
A vision that then and now, and always I will see ! 

Oh, let me live again that winter day ; 
We started homeward through the dusk so gray. 
Down the broad boulevard bright lights were lit — 
I wished there'd never be an end of it ! 

Oh, let me live again that winter day ; 
Crossing the bridge winds swept full sway; 
You did the driving, and I wore your muff — 
Until my frozen hands were warmed enough. 

Oh, let me live again that winter day ; 

Little I thought "good bye" would end all aspects 

gay. 
That day I saw the Perfect Life, ordained for 

few — 
And I was happy, that was all I knew ! 

6 




HALLOWE'EN 

HEN shades from every recess stalk, 
And goblin, wraith and sprite are free ; 

Pale, angry ghosts in silence walk — 
There is a Spirit comes to me. 

When hidden graves give up their dead 
From lonely wood or trackless sea, 

And whispering witches fly o'erhead — 
There is a Spirit comes to me. 

When every man, though king or slave, 
Feels unseen presence in his sleep; 

Unwelcome, or the one he'd crave — 
A Spirit gives me sorrow deep. 

For all I would forget comes back, 
In earthly form to live anew, 

And rising from the midnight black 
I see the Spirit of my love for you ! 



November 1, 1908. 




THE CHOIR INVISIBLE 

AST night some one who talked like you 

Sat next to me at dinner, and I drew 

Expressions from her, and I would rejoice 

To hear this counterfeit posesssor of your voice. 

This morning some one who had just seen you 
Told me of the meeting and I drew 
The story from him, how you looked and seemed ; 
You mentioned me, the fondest hope I dreamed. 

And every day I wonder whether fate will grant 

That I may see you, greatest joy extant! 

And listen to your voice with its perplexing tone 

And talk to you as if you were my own, 

And marvel o'er the charms that have for years 

Caused all my happiness — and all my tears. 



March 18, 1909. 

8 




AT MAMMOTH RINK 

HAT is how the old year dies, 
Giving me glimpses of your eyes; 
Little did I think the chance 
Would come today to meet your glance, 
One look, and clear became the skies — 
Reflected beauty of your eyes. 

That is how the old year dies, 
Giving me glimpses of your eyes; 
How short the time but deep the sting, 
Only to meet you on the wing; 
One look, and clear became the skies — 
Reflected beauty of your eyes. 

That is how the old year dies, 
Giving me glimpses of your eyes; 
A year's misfortunes empty grew, 
And inspiration burned anew; 
One look, and clear became the skies — 
Reflected beauty of your eyes. 



December 31, 1909. 



THE NEW REGIME 

Y" j§ES, the old barn's going to be a garage, 
They've begun to tear down the stalls, 
! And the harness and pictures must come out quick, 
For they're concreting the walls. 

For five years in that box over yonder 

We kept that great pacin' mare, 
Nellie S., with a mark of seventeen, 

She belonged to poor Jakey Baer. 

And in those two high stalls next it 

We boarded Ike Swartz's span, 
Two long-tailed blacks that could road like hell — 

He let 'em be drove by no other man. 

And a sorrel cob by the name o' Dan, 

A cribber for sure was he— 
You can see the marks on his feed-box yet, 

Though he's been dead since 'ninety-three. 

A drunk took him an' a big bay mare, 

Her stall was right beside ; 
An' drove 'em in front of the day express, 

Killed the team, and he himself died. 

Doc. Snyder's stud, a silver gray, 
With a tail that swept the ground, 

For six years stood in the 'joining stall — 
They swapt him when he went unsound. 

10 



The two hearse teams were next in line, 

What stories they could tell — 
When Irish and Dutch and Polish Jews 

Trailed their dead to the church's knell ; 

The white team took fright one Christmas Day, 
At the funeral of Mose Green's child, 

You mind that old darkey at the hotel ? 
Gee! they made a smash-up wild. 

Another time crazy Billy Good 

Was a-drivin' them down the street, 

An' ran over and killed a little girl, 
Then two were dead within a few feet. 

In the last stall, by the entry stood 

Old Simon, the trusty and true ; 
A skinny roan, with one-watch eye, 

But if you'd your best girl out he knew. 

In the cellar we kept old Harbor Lights, 
Since they killed the Gloucester game, 

Says his owner, 'They'll open again some day,' 
When he died it was shut the same. 

The Judge's saddler stood beside, 

He called him Missouri King — 
Paid a thousand for him in the West; 

How he loved that mean knee-sprung thing! 

Upstairs the surreys, and buggies, and sleighs 

To the auction-block must go — 
Along with the coach where the Governor rode, 

And the shoo-fly and Tally-ho; 

11 



And we who have worked here twenty years 

Must a double hustle take, 
They've got no use for such as we, 

Every horseman they say's a fake. 

And the young chauffeurs with their leather suits 

Will brush us roughly out, 
And the smoke and smell of gasoline 

Will put the old days to rout ; 

And the hissing sparkers, and carbide lights, 

And the siren's deafening scream 
Will forever blot out the livery days 

In the dawn of the new regime. 

But one word more, can they have such fun 
As we had, while we stabled here — 

Will a soulless machine know you like a horse? 
If so, we'll quit without a tear !" 



November 2, 1909. 

12 




THE OLD HACKMAN'S LAMENT 

OR twenty-five years I had the stand 
At the back of the Union depot, 
And met the east-bound mail each night 
In rain or sleet or snow. 

"Five horses I used in all those years, - 
Nig, Sam, and Bill and Bourbon Prince, 
Poor Prince once ran at Guttenberg, 
But, gee, he saw some hard work since. 

1 'Judges, bankers, and traveling men 
All called me Tat/ for that's my name, 
For though the train was six hours late, 
They knew they'd find me there the same. 

"One night a rumor reached my ears, 
I only heard it second hand, 
That some rich men had formed a scheme, 
To put a taxi on the stand. 

"And not long after in she steamed, 
All painted green, with blazing lights ; 
Run by a fresh kid from New York 
Who poked at me no end of slights. 

"My old friends dropped me one by one, 
'Twas as a red-haired show girl said — 
To think we onc't rode in them slow things,' 
But they've deprived us of our bread. 

13 



"On Christmas eve the taxi took 
A girl and drummer out of town, 
And the flyer brought in Big Bill Gheen, 
Who 'phoned to send the taxi down. 

"It didn't come in half an hour, 
He had to take my creaking hack; 
Up the hill I drove as best I could, 
On through the fog that hung so black. 

"At Main street corner, I just heard a roar, 
An awful crash and then a horse's squeal, 
The taxi had come 'round the turn, 
And knocked us over and took off a wheel. 

"As Bill Gheen crawled from out the wreck, 
He cursed me like a scab — 
He said he'd sue me, and put me in jail, 
And then he climbed into the taxicab. 

"Oh, I'm afraid my driving days are done, 
I'm much too old to start again, 
But if I ever take another ride, 
It's to the Port of Missing Men." 



14 




PATHWAYS 

OU crossed my path — 
Your footsteps in the sands of life 
Can never be effaced, 
By gales or tempests rife. 

I see you now, far, far away, 

Against my mental horizon, 

High are the rocks and ridges you have crossed, 

Many the miles that you have gone. 

There is a place where all paths meet, 
The Wayside Inn of Dreams Come True, 
Some never reach there all through life, 
I hope to get there and greet you. 



January 3, 1910. 

15 




THE CORD OF HOPE 

HAT does life guarantee? 

Nothing, but hope for me ; 
Pray tell me what is hope? 
Naught but a slackened rope, 
That when you pull it fair 
Its end is blank despair. 



What does hope guarantee ? 

It promised new life to me, 

I found it and I rejoiced 

Real gratitude I voiced — 

Found when I drew the silken band 

Dead ashes in my hand. 



January 5, 1910. 

16 




BERLIN 

AST night I dreamed I was at the Chancellery, 
Living again those days so gloriously free, 
Days when I sported epaulets and sword 
And passed my time as if I were a lord. 
I sauntered up the marble stairs and in the door, 
Old Wilhelm bowing met me "Some news in store. 
Mein Herr, the Baroness has asked that you 
Call her at once" and to the 'phone I flew, 
Which hung upon the wall, beside 
The lounge where Bayard Taylor died. 
To hear from her my heart could hardly wait, 
But soon I heard her voice "You are a trifle late ; 
Oh, won't you come up to our home at three 
And go to the Winter Garden skating with me?" 
"Of course I shall — Wilhelm a droschky quick." 
I met the little Baroness, done out in furs and 

sweater chic. 
Soon on the crowded ice we glided, not a cloud I 

knew, 
Success in life seemed only what I choose to do. 
At last I spoke my heart: "In one short month I 

leave for home 
To make my fortune, it does not pay to roam, 
Else, truly, you must come to the States with me." 
Her red lips pouted, she replied, "You must stay 

here and be — " 

A knock upon the door — I wake — it is a morn- 
ing fair, 
The sun is streaming through my windows from 
Penn Square. 

January 6, 1910. 
17 




THE PAIN THAT LASTS THROUGH LIFE 

MALL sorrows smart and leave their scars, 
But never fail to heal ; 
A million in our lives may come 
Each poignant and each real. 
But touch the heart, no earthly power, 
No balm, nor thread, nor knife 
Can ever stanch the constant flow, 
The pain that lasts through life. 

To outward eyes we stand and meet 

All comers with a smile, 

Our head is high, our voices clear, 

We cheerfully beguile ; 

But underneath there is the flow, 

The inward throbbings rife, 

That drip from out the injured heart, 

The pain that lasts through life. 

Small sorrows smart and leave their scars, 

And cover us with gloom ; 

Throw highest hopes into a rut, 

And send us to our doom ; 

But when our heart is touched we rise 

Triumphant in the strife; 

We win, but ever bleeds the wound, 

The pain that lasts through life. 

January 10 r 1910. 

18 




RED DRESS 

URNING pictures into wood 

Has long been quite a fad 
Some do it with consummate art 
With others it is bad. 

Burning pictures in the heart 
Depends who the models be, 

Some make an impress very faint 
No hawkish eye can see. 

You burnt a picture in my heart, 
'Twill never fade, I guess, 

Your eyes of blue, your golden hair, 
Your flaming bright red dress. 

I've tried to have it scraped away, 
It merely clearer grows — 

Shutting my eyes, I only see 
You, in your gown of rose. 



January 11, 1910. 

19 




BEECH TREE IMMORTALITY 

UT in the groves of locust, linn and pine, 

Near where a clear brook whispers to the moss, 
Down where the grape vines and the creepers sigh, 

Four slender beech trees stand close by the floss. 
In earlier day, in some staid English park 

A sandstone cupid or a marble urn would be 
Established just betwixt them on the velvet turf, 

And pebbled paths would lead up to the shrine 
of reverie. 
But here, vast black-topped mountains loom, 

That moan when winds sweep o'er their crest, 
And straying cattle are the only signs of life ; 

Few dreamers come to soothe their minds to 
rest. 
One sultry August morn' a wanderer appeared 

And lolled away an hour beneath the leafy 
shade ; 
His spirit throbbed with echoes of a recent strife ; 

His future had been bettered or unmade; 
But ere he left he drew his knife and deftly cut 

On the smooth bark of beech that all might see, 
Two names, ( ) ( ) 

And turned them over to the God of Beech Tree 
Immortality. 



August 9, 1910. 

20 



MY VALEDICTORY 

PON the sad, grey shore I stand, 

Watching your ship fade out of sight, 
Towards the horizon of the new life, 
Leaving my soul back in the night. 

And, as the silken sail goes out, 
Behind the line of cloud and sky, 

I marvel that with all my fervent love 
I lost you, dare I ask God why? 

Yet I must turn, and steps retrace 
Into the empty mansion of my soul. 

And set aright the bric-a-brac of days 

Of which you were the everlasting whole. 

I touch each hanging lamp or statuette, 
Or damask curtain, couch or chair, 

To brush away in dust f orgetf ulness, 
Only to feel your prescience everywhere. 

The rustle of your dress is in the hall, 
Your breath is in each flowering urn, 

Your finger tips are on the books I read 
I seem to see you every time I turn. 

And from the haunted mansion of my soul, 
I'll go to seek the open air divine, 

Only to hear the accents of your voice 
Lilted from out the honeysuckle vine. 

I wander, solitary, to the shore, 

Where your fair bark has passed from 
sight, 
Throbbing, glowing, with the new life, 

Leaving my soul to stumble in the night. 

April 19, 1911. 

21 




ARBUTUS 

HE rose and violet when they fade 
Spread odors sickening and impure, 
'Tis only in the freshness of their bloom 
Their scent and presence can endure, 
Most love affairs and friendships, too, 
In ending like the violet and the rose, 
Wither away but leave a reek behind 
That they were bad at heart we must suppose, 
The pale arbutus when it fades, 
Like some frail woman in a ballroom's glare 
Grows limp and waxy ; totters into musk, 
Shedding an odor that none can compare. 
Like the arbutus nature fashioned you 
In beauty, sweetness, and in the decay 
Of our brief romance, although sere and dead, 
It wafts a perfume that will last alway. 



May 13, 1911. 

22 




MAGNOLIA 

OUR radiant presence seemed to me, 
Like some white-robed magnolia tree, 
Graceful, scented, one mass of flowers, 
The reigning spirit of Maytime's hours. 

But as the Spring advances into June 
The petals fall, in ashen loveliness atune 
With the soft breezes, and the misty sky, 
And on the grass like snows of winter lie. 

Then while I gaze upon the tree so bare, 
Its broken flowers scattered everywhere, 
Methinks it is the way your love has flown 
And vanished when it ought have been my own. 



May 18, 1911. 

23 




AND WITH WHAT MEASURE YE METE * * * 

N days when faith was real and God could hear, 

Pilgrims from valleys far and near, 

Journeyed afoot, by horse, by boat, 

To where swift rumors set afloat 

That the dull course of things had stirred, 

A blessed miracle had occurred — 

How their steps quickened when they drew 

Near and rested on grass where faith proved true. 

My faith was real, I felt that God could hear; 
Angels of joy came whispering in my ear, 
And made my lips murmur this one line, 
"I am at peace, life is divine." 

But miracles occur, and quickly pass, 
Though sacred still is every wisp of grass, 
Even the gas-lamps on the street where you 
For a few minutes told me faith was true. 



May 30, 1911. 

24 




THE MOURNING DOVE 

CROSS the rolling prairie, 

Perched in a dead beech tree, 
Against the setting sun aflame, 

A dove is calling mournfully ; 
And the thought occurs to me, 

Is his lament like mine — 
Is he telling of a loved one nestling 

By another on the fox-grape vine? 
Drowsy with happiness supreme, 

Leaving him forage, flit and rest 
Alone, often by the sheltered maple 

He had chosen for their nest. 
And when he sings 'tis mournfully, 

Just as I strive to impart, 
In verse, out on the prairie, 

The gnawing sorrow at my heart. 



July 9, 1911. 

25 




ACQUAINTANCE 

OU said acquaintance as it moves along, 
"Always results in disillusionment." 

That first impressions then are wholly wrong 
To make a brilliant pose is all that's meant. 

If this be so, then what a tragedy 
It is to meet, be pleased, idealize — 

And each successive day to have to see 
Our judgment faulty and unwise. 

Then friendship is no rock, but shifting sand, 
Glossed over by the sunlight of our hopes, 

And disenchantment is the promised land, 

Bare trees of knowledge growing on its slopes. 

Love cannot be exception to this rule, 

For there 'tis thought perfection's surely found 
'Till in stalks undiscovered faults to fool 

And dash the precious structure to the ground. 

The greatest optimists admit this sad lament, 

In fact it only is too true — 
But there could come no disillusionment, 

To anyone in knowing you. 



26 




BELATED TELEPHONE GIRLS 

TORMBOUND at the old hotel, 
In the Quaker City, too ; 
Let blizzards rage until they're tired, 
If I may gaze at you. 

Across the marble dining hall 
What feasting for my eyes, 

And when your glance meets mine, 
Your look is of surprise. 

That in this early morning hour, 
While blizzards rage and roar; 

That I would look at you alone, 
And not at the other four. 



27 




THE LAST DRIVING HORSE 

E'S the last light driving horse in town, 
The others have all been sold 
And shipped to the North, and East and West, 
One went to Brazil, I'm told." 

So spoke the tall, slim liveryman 

With his pea-jacket and mustache 

Rigged out as they were in 'eighty-nine 

When the horsemen had all the cash. 

"Say, this was a cracking good horse town 

Before the autos came, 
Then horsemen sold out with a rush, 
I say that to their shame. 

"Why, right here in this very alley were kept 
Wild Archey, two seventeen ; 
Harlem Maid, Echo Lass, and Middlemarch, 
And also Broncho Queen; 

"Annie Pixley, she won in two fourteen, 
Parnell, and Sleepy Fred, 
Wilkes Boy, Eight Bells, and Emma D., 
I suppose all of 'ems dead. 

28 



"The racers all went, and the roadsters next 
Until but the one remained; 
His owner swore 'No autos for him/ 
He would drive even when it rained. 

"But his wife she had a social bee, 

'All her neighbors were getting cars* 
She said, and she'd storm and fret 
And bring on the worst family jars. 

"At last she vowed that 'never again' 
Behind a horse she'd ride, 
It was buy a machine or get a divorce 
And it didn't take long to decide. 

"They'll sell him cheap, he'll step mighty fast, 
Lands, I hate to see him go, 
It means one more victory for the machines, 
But it's the spirit of the day, you know." 



29 




TWO VISIONS— AND A REALITY 

E stood upon the stucco battlement and saw the 

Invalides, 
The leaden dome outlined against the streaked 

sky — 
Wintry and smooth the Place de la Concorde lay 
Dotted with lights. We hear the newsmen cry 
Running across the square "La Patrie, La Patrie," 
And tinkling bells upon the cabs that glide 
Out to the Champs Elysee' from the Rue de 

Rivoli — 
And lights come up from steamers on the Seine — 
But soon the skies grow darker, and the dome less 

plain — 
'Till in its place we see — a towering mountain 

height 
Leaden and resolute in the evening light — 
No Place de Concorde stretches out between 
But in its stead a clearing vast and green — 
The dancing lights are but reflected glow 
Of stars upon the North Fork down below — 
The newsmen are the crickets, almost out of 

breath 
Chirping their last sad song of fall and death — 
The tinkling bells, there's only one we hear, 
A dismal cow bell, on the hilltop near — 
The skies grow bright — again a change of scene, 
We look around and wonder where we've been — 
Electric lights, noise, motors, crowds that ebb and 

flow, 
Why, we've been dreaming in the balcony at the 

Auto Show! 

December 1, 1906. 

30 




[gj l l [p| IN THE EGYPTIAN MUSEUM AT BERLIN 

IVE thousand years have come and gone: 
Still the unanswering world moves on, 
fq|i \\a\ And with mere curiosity we stand 

In a damp museum in a foreign land, 

And peer into the faces of the dead — 

The very young, high priests, and newly wed, 

Who grew and faded in this distant time 

As flowers do, in our own clime : 

We wonder why they're here, or why are we 

Leaving sunlight and facts to stare at mystery ! 



1904. 



31 




CLARA PRICE 

VER the lonely mountain pike 
That runs from Snow Shoe to Boak's, Pine Glen, 
j~ji Passes the deserted log tavern, then 

Crosses the ridge towards the river's course ; 
The old stage rattles, each wheezing horse 
Tugs his utmost ; the light hearted driver sings — 
(He is Harry St. Cloud, born in far Quebec) — 
And the mud is making our clothes a wreck ! 

As we gain the summit and start down hill 
Through the sombre slashings, 'neath the grey sky 
St. Cloud stops his song, and tells us why, 
And points to a marble block by the road — 
"It's been chipped by travelers, but once it showed 
In letters plain, like a warning sign — 
'Clara Price, murdered November 27, 1889.' 

The poor girl was going to fetch the cows 

When the — of a — attacked her here; 

She fought her best, for she knew no fear, 

But she gave her life in this awful spot" — 

And then with a crack from the blacksnake lash, 

The wheezy team makes a forward dash, 

And old Mike Morrissey, in the back seat, 

Says, "God rest her soul in peace complete." 



32 




THE MYSTIC'S 



GRAVE 



OOR Ben Langdon, quite forgotten, 
Save by those who knew him well, 
Mystic, student, poet, and dreamer 
He was, so his friends will tell. 

Long ago he left this living world, 
Where he might have won renown 

And they laid him in the graveyard 
In the quaint old Muncy Town. 

With one, who admired his talents; 

'Twas in the glorious golden hour — 
I visited his grass grown tomb, 

In May, the trees were all in flower! 

We left the sleepy main street 

Where at the close of day 
The old folks sit along the walks 

And doze the hours away. 

We passed by shady cottage yards, 

And crossed a little brook ; 
Crawled through a shady white-washed gate 

To the sequestered burial nook. 

An old man raked the new-cut grass — 

"Right here," he said to me, 
"Ben Langdon stood and made his speech, 

It was back about 'seventy-three, 
33 



When they dedicated this marble shaft 

To John Brady, the pioneer, 
And Muncy was crowded as never before 

Nor will be ever again, I fear." 

A robin hopped among the stones 

That marked the ancient dead — 
I followed to where the grass grew tall, 

"There's Langdon's grave," he said. 

I gazed on the modest granite block 
Where now gleamed the sunset rays 

That shot through the wavering spruce tree 
boughs 
And thought of this World and its ways! 

How easy it is for a man to die — 
Be remembered for years to come 

For some vain act or selfish strike, 
But for mind alone we are dumb. 



34 




THE AFTERNOON TRAIN 

N the afternoon train from Harrisburg 

When the sun shines deep and the cars run slow, 
J And the shadows along the river bank creep, 
fnl Where the buttonwoods and the birches grow. 
On the afternoon train from Harrisburg 

I traveled one day in the last July ; 
As we left the smoking depot hot 

What across the car should greet my eye — 
But a girl who was young and fair to see : 
I smiled on her, and she smiled on me. 
And I figured out as the train jogged on, 

"When that old woman who sits by her side 
Gets out, I'll hurry across the aisle 

And a pretty companion I'll have this ride. 
For no doubt she knows many friends of mine 

Who live in the Valley that God Loves Best ;" 
And I looked out the window and then at her 

And waited for time to do the rest. 
And soon to a station the train slowed down : 

"Dauphin, Dauphin," the brakeman cried — 
My maiden fair got quickly out 

And left me considerably stupefied. 
And the quiet scenes of Inglenook, 

Or the mountain crags of Liverpool, 
Or the bustling crowds at Sunbury 

And Dewart's evening stillness cool. 
Or the riffles at sunset near Muncy Town 

Could not interest me as before, 
For what fun we'd had, if we'd only met, 

But through life we will meet no more ! 



August 7, 1900. 

35 



F 



THE SLASHINGS 

OR miles and miles, by hill and dale, 
The chalky-white stumps gleam 
Where once the hemlock forest waved 
By the banks of the mountain stream. 

Each forest king that was felled and peeled, 

Has left a tombstone behind 
In the bleached white stumps that everywhere 

The wilderness days remind. 

When the endless hills were a swaying mass 

That stretched to the horizon 
Of hemlock and pine, and completely hid 

The streams as they rushed along ! 

But now all is still in this lonely land, 

Save only the jay bird's peep 
And the drowsy drip of the shrunken brook, 

O'er the stones where it used to leap. 

And man, the destroyer, has quite forgot 
These scenes where his axe did ply — 

But the hemlock graves put their curse on man 
Every year when the wells go dry ! 



36 




NEW AND OLD BERLIN 

WAS but a year ago I drove into the streets 

Of New Berlin, in the New World ; 

Two double rows of maples form an arch 

That spreads completely o'er the grass-grown 

way, 
Lined by green-shuttered homes, neat gardens, 

too; 
Old-fashioned stores with little window panes 
Displaying trinkets and dust-covered crockery- 
ware: 
An old-time tavern stand, with swinging sign, 
With graybeards grouped upon the porch expec- 
tantly : 
And out a lane, a once well-known academy 
Stands now deserted, the windows gaping, fences 

down; 
And not a sound except a rooster's crow 
In some well-shaded yard, and lots of sunshine 

warm — 
And this is New Berlin, in the New World! 

'Twas one year later that I drove into the streets 
Of Old Berlin, in the Old World; 

37 



A roar of voices, hammers, wheels, first greeted 

me, 
And cracking whips of several hundred cabs, 
And rolling trucks, and trams and motor cars 
Rushed past, and eager, busy human crowds 
Thronged the wide thoroughfares, while officers 
In uniforms of red and blue rode gaily by 
And as my eyes, expanded, reaching out, I saw 
Grand palaces, vast squares, and columns high, 
Of marble, gold and bronze, which seemed to 

breathe 
The very spirit of a vast World Power — 
And everywhere Progression ruled the hour — 
And this is Old Berlin, in the Old World ! 



38 




CASSIE GEORGE'S GHOST 

'VE lost my whip, gosh what a place 
To leave my rig, my steps retrace. 
Whoa, Jen, stay there till I return 
And feed a little on leaves and fern — 
And up the road I went with easy tread, 
Carefully watching things overhead 
To see the twigs that caught my whip 
And gave me this unnecessary trip — 
I'd gone a hundred yards or more 
Not knowing what I had in store, 
Until right in the woods beside the road 
I spied a log cabin — the moonlight showed 
Through the spare pine trees — with streaky 

gleams 
When all at once I heard some screams, 
'Hold on, young feller — one word to you, 
I'll show you something before I'm through, 
And soon I saw an old woman come 
Hobblin' out of the hut, it struck me dumb. 
The moon shone through her — her awful eyes 
Were wide and twice their natural size, 
'I'm Cassie George,' she said to me, 
'I was born in Knox County, Tennessee, 
But I lived in Kansas, Nebraska and here 

39 



Until I died in July this year — ■ 

Say, take a message and give it straight, 

Don't run away, the hour haint late, 

They've buried my bones in the town below 

But's to Williamsport I want to go 

Along with my friends when I was rich, 

I don't like them here, it makes me twitch — 

And say — I will hant this road every night, 

Until they get me planted right, 

And those who knew me will tell ye, son, 

That Cassie George, won't talk for fun, 

Now here's yer whip,' she said with glee, 

As she handed the whalebone over to me. 

'I give it to you — now bear my tale 

Or else I'll foller upon yer trail.' 

'Thank you, old woman,' I tremblingly said, 

And down the hill I quickly fled — 

'Git up, Jen, hurry me on to town, 

I'll tell every man from the preacher down, 

If they don't believe me, let Cassie be 

And she'll prove I'm telling the truth, just see!" 



40 




THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

IGHTLY I love the little country church, 
With the big yellow pine before the door, 

Yew-like shedding its venerable shade 

Above this home of hymns and Bible-lore; 

Where stalwart dwellers from the mountain side 
Dressed in the styles of eighteen sixty-one, 

And hearty youths, and pretty maids 

Have worshipped since their lives begun. 

And in the evening service, by the light 
Of a great hanging lamp, they hear 

A doctrine suited to their normal minds, 
And not a faith of forms or fear. 

And as the freshening mountain breeze 
Blows through the open windows wide, 

And sincere songs of praise ring out, 
I always feel that God was close beside ! 

For, though Fve visited in tabernacles grand, 
With vaulted roofs and windows of stained 
glass, 

And seats of costly carved wood — 

And flowers upon the altar in a showy mass — 

Yet God seemed absent, and unsatisfied 
I sat the phases of the service through, 

But though I missed Him in these spacious halls, 
I'd felt His presence in that country pew! 



41 




LYCOMING CREEK 

H, treacherous Lycoming Creek, 
If you could only speak, 
Fd ask the reason 
Why at most every season 
Like a tame serpent 
You glide by! 

And, through your innocence, 

Won the confidence 

Of dwellers by your edge. 

And those who crossed the bridge, 

You can't deny? 

Sudden a torrent you became, 
Tearing with wild acclaim, 
Ripped out the bridge's span — 
Wrecked a freight, drowned a man- 
Yes, two or three now lie below 
Buried where your currents flow, 
Forever and aye ! 



42 




SPOOK HILL'S GHOST 

T best Spook Hill's a lonely space, 
The very top a graveyard, through a fringe 
Of graceful locusts one can see the stones 
That tell Wayne's founders' resting place ; 
And close beside, the unsightly signal tower, 
Where brave Clendenin died by coward's hand, 
And in the gully grows a maple tree 
All hollowed out that it could hide a man : 
Low scrubby pines, and brush and briers sway, 
And make it awesome — even in midday. 



For Spook's Hill Ghost is not a thing of night, 
But chooses when the brightest daylight shines 
To stalk, a headless figure in a soldier suit, 
Poking among the elders and the vines 
In search, perchance, for its own missing head 
Chopped off by Indians, so legends repeat — 
And when one meets it, blind the spectre seems, 
As it will face you, and you will retreat, 
Leaving the mutilated sprite pursue its way, 
This ghost that haunts not night, but day ! 



43 




THE PEEPERS 

UST a word about the peepers — 
You know them well, of course, 
Have heard them on the warm spring nights, 
In every marshy source. 



I like to hear their cheery note 
When I step from the train, 

They seem to gladly welcome me 
To the Mountain Home again. 

Each one his rival strives to beat, 

Like a minor college yell, 
Until the solemn country-side 

In blithe harmony doth swell. 

But later in the season, when 
The night birds haunt the lea 

As if ashamed, the peepers cease, 

Though their songs sound sweet to me. 



44 




THE BURNT FOREST 
(Near Clearfield, Pa.) 

ENTINELLED by sharp mountain peaks 
Like martyrs in a gateless pit 
J Ten thousand fire swept warriors of the forest 
stand 
Voiceless awaiting a certain doom — 
To drop forgotten through the gloom — 
Be buried in the soft black swamp. 
Mockingly the evening zephyr speaks 
Among the fragile charred top boughs 
In gentle tones, as though to palliate 
A fate which seems so needless and so hard — 
But every cracking branch repels the breeze 
And, pain-racked, bids it to be still — 
Repeating the story how that lying wind 
Filled full of life the striped flame 
Whose warm caresses did the forest kill. 
As abashed the murmur vanishes, 
Over the imperishable hills 

A laughing sunset, bright as the killing fire ap- 
pears 
Flooding the valley of wide expanse 
With countless fresh-born fears. 
But after blazing forth its narrows to a frown 
And then behind the hills (imperishable) goes 

down. 
And upon the stricken valley darkness does gently 

bend 
Bringing the humbled forest one day nearer to 

its end. 
1900. 



45 




THE FAIR LADY ANNA 

WAS at Latonia, in the early fall, 
On the third race I staked my all, 
Upon the Fair Lady Anna's chance 
To win at seven-furlongs distance. 

I'd read the entries, which was nothing new, 
And having that day little else to do 
Except indulge my fondness for the horse, 
I went by early train to the race-course. 

For I had seen Fair Lady Anna down 
A chestnut filly of some renown, 
And for her Name's Sake I declared I'd play 
Her — It's all in a lifetime, anyway! 

I watched the first and second races through, 

I placed my bet, and then emerged to view 

The horses as they passed the grandstand, one by 

one. 
Cogswell, his black coat glistening in the sun, 
And Dan McKenna, Lily of the West, 
The long-legged Haviland, and all the rest. 
Soon the Fair Lady Anna cantered up the track, 
With little black Sidney Bonner bouncing on her 

back. 
"They're off!" the shout comes from the stand 
And cries of partisans arise on every hand — 
With Dan McKenna leading at three-quarter's 

post, 
But the fleet Lady Anna moving toward him like 

a ghost — - 
And in less than a minute more the race is run : 
The numbers hoisted, "Fair Lady Anna's won!" 

46 




VALENTINE 

HOEVER tries to win must lose, 

Even the thought is heresy to Fate; 
Ours is the right to love and not to choose — 
Those who hope are barred without the gate. 

To-day is all — especially if it brought 
Someone into our life — who fills a place 

Deeper and dearer than we ever thought — 
Make best of it, as evidence of grace ! 

If we still wish — and try to seize the power 
That joins and severs, gives and takes 

We rank ourselves as gods — an awful hour 
Of retribution our presumption makes. 

But if we go on our way and fain implore — 
The Lord of Fate will smile upon our path 

If it is best he should — why ask for more? — 
Ingratitude deserves the divine wrath. 

*J« #|i JfC rj* JfJ Jj£ 3j* 

Therefore I dare not hope that you'll be mine, 
But simply be my Valentine ! 

47 




IN INTROSPECT 

ENEATH the reflex of the yellow sky 

(Which smiles upon the earth,) 
Marshaling forebodings which will come 

In days deserted, days of dearth, 
When joy to Nowhere has departed 

And left a little fear in place of mirth. 

The nights of those days will be haunted 

By a reality (not a dream) 
Which will cast, unaccountable, 

Its shadow 'cross some pale moonbeam, 
Then sink to earth, as if disheartened, 

Shimmering reluctant on each stagnant stream. 



i to iviuvi/uiii; V" v^c*v/x± .juc^j 



The unsettled ones of this world 

(Which is the unseen world of Now) 

Beholding this speechless phantasm. 
To rede its silence, all will vow, 

And follow in its wake, unguided, 
Like unto a ship without a prow. 

Towards the end some earth enchanters 
Possessed of reasonability (braves) 

Will cry to this moonbeam obscurer, 
And ask it what it craves, 

But it shall answer not, 

And they — return to their graves. 



48 




THE STUFFED EAGLE 

USPENDED from a dusty string 

In a dingy down-town store 
With wings wide-spread, a stuffed bald-eagle 

hangs. 
And as the summer breezes blow 
Filth-laden through a small window, 

This regal bird, which once did soar 
Above the clouds, above the storms, 
Swings gently round and round. 

The fierce eyes, aggressive and proud, 
Replaced by glass beads, stare at space ; 

And as in swinging faces to the left, 

Reflected in a mirror sees its image face to face 

Then silently anon it swings. 

If there is a spark of spirit left, 

Can it but feel that some time there will come 
A day when that vile cord will break, 

Released of its humbled burden dumb? 

When a vast black age will reign, 

And, every feather in its proper place, 

Will gaze upon a jewelled mirror then, 
And see its living image face to face. 



49 




THE SPAN OF LIFE 

WENTY-THREE, and twenty-three, make fort? 
six, 

Another span of life, and youth has fled ! 
Forty-six and thirty, make seventy-six, 

The chances are by that time I'll be dead ! 
I'll sink to rest, alas ! but no, I'm brave, 
God, there is life beyond the grave ! 



50 




G 




THE WORLD OF NOW 

slowly, Time, 

I know not what the future brings, 
The Present's joys are everything! 

The evening light, 
The mountain height, 
Are of to-day ! 

The family that I love so well, 

The home where I am proud to dwell, 

To-morrow's change may take away ! 

I know not what the future brings, 
The Present's joys are everything. 



51 




THE SPAN OF LIFE 

WENTY-THREE, and twenty-three, make fort? 
six, 

Another span of life, and youth has fled ! 
Forty-six and thirty, make seventy-six, 

The chances are by that time I'll be dead ! 
I'll sink to rest, alas ! but no, I'm brave, 
God, there is life beyond the grave ! 



50 




G 



THE WORLD OF NOW 

slowly, Time, 

I know not what the future brings, 
The Present's joys are everything! 

The evening light, 
The mountain height, 
Are of to-day ! 

The family that I love so well, 

The home where I am proud to dwell, 

To-morrow's change may take away ! 

I know not what the future brings, 
The Present's joys are everything. 



51 




THE LAWS OF CHANCE 

OMEWHERE, I know not where, 

Where the laws of chance work slow, 
Someone has won the love of her 
Whom, perhaps, I'll never know. 

Well, I'm aware we may not meet, 

(I and my earthly shrine), 
But if we do, the laws of chance 

Will surely make her mine. 

So I place my trust in the laws of chance, 
For they'll guard my love until — 

Until by right she'll belong to me, 
As the laws of chance shall will. 



52 



MEMORIES 

IM shapes of Yesterday, 

Where will you be To-morrow? 

I hold the key which sets you free, 

Dim shapes clothed with sorrow. 

Out through the rainy fog, 

Guided by a weeping light, 
This shadow band from the lowland — 

Dim shapes who thrive by night — 

Grasping the corniced walls, 

Scaling the sharpest window ledge, 

Open the gate ; the hour is late. 

Dim shapes, fly home below the sedge ! 

For see, where the dull eastern line 
Rises like a strangled throat! 

Away, away, dim shapes of Yesterday, 
Farewell, as through the mist you float ! 



53 




THE TUBE ROSE 

N a deserted mountain top, 

Where a pine waved desperately, 
I entered the cave, 

With a swinging lantern before me; 
Wearing her token, 
The jealous-eyed tube rose, 
(But longing for you), 

Who dwell many miles from where the flow- 
ers grow. 

As deeper I went, and shadows deployed me, 

Seeking, it seemed, to offer me aid ; 

While the tube-rose encompassed me, 

Drowning your memory, (sweet memory, 

Heaven born memory) , 

By cruel substitution : 

But it could not last long, 

(For I awakened) 

And seizing the tube rose I flung it away, 

And your image now flourishes, 

And shall ever flourish, 

As long as I bear gainst the storms. 

1898. I 

54 




TO , 1896-1904 

THINK of many nights at dusk — 
When the last streaks of light 

Were passing from the sky, 
We strolled along the silent river bank 
My youthful arm around your waist, 

You and I. 

The evening air was still and cool — 

Sweet with the smell of growing grass and corn, 

A lonely cricket chirped among the weeds 

And nature ruled the scene, until the evening train 

Up the wide valley sent its whistle shrill — 

I kissed you often, for full well I knew 

Soon that I would be far from you ! 

And as the night drew closer to our side, 

And the dark mountains darker loomed, 

We came before your gate, and kissed good- 
night 
And out the muddy road I tramped 
Alone — but I could feel delight ! 



55 



Eight years had passed and, still a boy, 

One night I landed from the evening train, 
The same kind faces met me as of yore, 

The trees, and mountains seemed the same — 
I passed a lowly hut, and something made 
me see 
Seated upon the porch with sunken eyes and 

ghastly face 
Wrapped in blankets, almost in Death's embrace 
You were — instead of by me ! 

And I was told you had not long to live 

And should your short life end, and I live still 

No pomp nor riches can obliterate 

The thoughts of many nights at dusk — 

When the last streaks of light 

Were passing from the sky — 
We strolled along the silent river bank 

You and I. 



56 



THE FERRY-HOUSE AT HOBOKEN 

HE gas light's glitter gleams, 

The conversation lulls 

Among the crowd — 

The dull, despondent crowd 

At midnight, in the oak-ribbed Ferry House 

Outside a patient engine pants ; 

The windows rattle in their sills — 

Two doors are flung aside — 

And like great toads 

The sullen crowd 

Hops from the Ferry House 

Into the sphinx-like ferry-boat. 

The black water churns ; 

Tobacco smoke in whirls 

Blurs us as dust, 

As in the cabin silently 

We listen to the steamer break the waves — 

A sudden dismal lurch, 

A creak of ropes and chains — 

Then out we surge 

To separate forever — 

Each to his secret way. 

Here did I see a face 

Which might have haunted me 
%. c, But that I knew 
r - How wide the world, 

How small its particles! 
April, 1900. 

57 




THE DRIVE 

ILL you ever forget the drive we took 

Over the sunset hills ? 
For the old horse which bore us along 

Was not going the pace that kills, 
And gave us plenty of time to gaze 

On valley, forest and stream; 
And feel upon our faces there 

The force of the night's cold gleam. 

Will you ever forget that ferry boat 

Which we tried to work ourselves? 
When it took us an hour-and-a-half to cross 

The river's sandy shelves? 
And lastly, do you remember 

The drive on the mountain top, 
When you looked straight down at the sheer 
descent 

Into which you thought we'd drop? 

Remember the ghost stories I told you 

As we passed each shadowy grove? 
Until you "got on" to my little trick, 

And very much faster you drove. 
But safely home we got at last, 

With not a single mishap ; 
And we prided ourselves on our subtle skill, 

In escaping that mountain death-trap. 
September, 1898. 

58 



I3ZZ© 

I 

□|CZ=3|5| 



SONG TO — 

LOVED a mountain solitude, 

Where Heaven and earth were one, 
And Hell could not intrude 
Its palsied arm upon, 
(For that was long ago). 



I loved each withering pine tree, 

Ragged on vale or mount, 
And often vowed in childhood's days 

To leave on no account, 

(But waited patiently). 

I loved a maid in that mountain solitude, 
But sadder, she lived not there, 

Her home was down the valley 
In a city where steeples stare, 
(Vacantly in the sky). 



Enticing winds blew down the mountain, 
Drawing me down the slopes 

To the dim-sighted city, 

Where only a blind man gropes, 
(For all there see too well). 
' 59 



Into its hollow streets (new to me) 
My love for her started to die, 

Vainly I looked on the seeded park, 
And then to the blackened sky, 
(To renew my distant love). 

Each day brought me less love, 

Leaving me more forlorn, 
For I longed for the solitude uncouth 

Whence I myself had torn, 

(And thought of love). 

Storms blow from the city, 

But I, wondering, cannot leave, 

For I wait to take her from it, 
Pit without reprieve ! 
(And patiently wait the day) . 



60 




TO A LILY OF THE VALLEY 

ILY of the Valley, 

I love you most purely, 
Because you are loved by her 
Fondly and surely. 

For you have been plucked, 
You have been pressed 

To her fair bosom, 
Loved haven of rest. 

You wish not to wander, 
No, neither would I, 

But in her sweet presence 
To wither and die. 

Your life is but short, 

Still your pleasures are great, 

For but a time 

You are with her in state. 



1897. 



over, 



poor withered flower, 
With your usefulness v 

1 don't envy you there, 
You're a cast-away lover. 

Though we can't both survive, 

Sweet Lily so true, 
So the one that's to perish 

I hope will be you. 



61 




DEATH 

ARK, unbefriended and alone, 

With skulking feet and held-in breath 
,r~i He goes his way ; short is his stay, 
This leveller of joy, this Death. 

Whene'er a smiling group appears, 
By wayside cot, through palace door, 

He whets his steel, his victims reel, 
He looks not twice, but looks for more. 

The storm, with whom we mortals fight, 
Is but his ally, staunch and staid; 

And with the snow, and haily blow, 
They make all creepers be afraid. 

The hissing fire, which upward leaps, 
To join its twin, the sunset red, 

Turns us to dust, with laughing lust, 
We of the future dead. 

The precipice which in our road 
A yawning, open chasm heaves 

On every crag, a sharpened snag 

With death, a richer torment weaves. 

The ocean wash, and crashing stream, 

Look beseechingly at him, 
To laughing hurl unto their swirl, 

Some children of his whim. 



62 



We look unto the friendly sun, 
We learned we looked too well; 

For that same sun will gladly run, 
To build for us a hell. 

Away from such, to softer night, 

We on its bosom rest at last ; 
Our stay is brief, for on some reef 

Through darkness we are cast. 

We hope the mountain to be strong, 
Stronger than any oaken branch; 

We snugly hide down at its side, 
Then comes the avalanche. 

What feelings of impotency 

Drive us to devious strife; 
Then in despair, we breathe the air; 

Are poisoned by its life. 

We wait, as prophecies have told, 

Till Death will shoulder up the scythe that 
kills, 
His work all done, his battles won, 

And vanishes o'er the evening hills. 



63 




THE SPIRIT OF THE CANDLE-LIGHT 

ERE and ever candle-light 

Beams this wide-walled room to-night, 
While outside in lightning flash, 
Silence blank, rain's slipping splash. 
(Ever dancing, living sprite, 
The spirit of the candle-light 
Burns radiant with the storm to-night.) 

Shadows flickering, flying, yet 
Streaked with yellow, buff and jet, 
In askance wander round about, 
Unmindful of the storm without. 
(Filling with awe each crevice trite, 
The spirit of the candle-light 
Burns radiant with the storm to-night.) 

Dreams, unmindful of the past, 
Are coming, leaving, or will last 
Through the darkness' noisy fray, 
Fighting its battle, fraught with day. 
(But sombre, silent in its might, 
The spirit of the candle-light 
Burns radiant with the storm to-night.) 

64 



1899. 



Spirits unseen, unknown, and not, 

Shimmer, and die, a wasted lot, 

While raindrops pour through window 

shade 
Enveloped, sheathed, like icy glade. 
(Yet, though unconscious of the sight, 
The spirit of the candle-light 
Burns radiant with the storm to-night.) 

Vanish all but candle-light, 

Still is this gloomy room to-night. 

In wood and bush the storm has stopped, 

And the last blade of rain has dropped. 

(But in the darkness, breathless quite, 

The spirit of the candle-light 

Is dying with the storm to-night.) 



65 




EPITAPH FOR A DEAD PINE TREE 

TRAIGHT and noble the pine tree stood, 
Staunch through years 'gainst storm and flood, 
Until the lightning's cruel stroke 
On its dark crest, dread hatred broke; 
Then, dying, to the winds the tree did call 
To smite it, from its barkless pall ; 
A skeleton, so bleak and grim, 
A warning of the tempest's vim, 
Until the north wind's kindly gust 
Will send it tottering to the dust. 



1895. 



66 




THAT EVENING 



N pensive mood my mind recalls 
That pretty maid below in the stalls, 
On the night we saw the "Power of the Press," 
And a sigh for joy I can't repress, 
When I think of the evening so pleasantly spent 
(But alas, the moments too quickly went). 



They told me it was a wonderful play, 

But I read my play-bill dreamily, 

And thanked kind fate for an evening like this, 

Within the presence of Beatrice. 




FALSE LOVE 

T is needless to say we have said 

And thought and acted and prayed ; 
In unrealized days that have fled, 

In the time that couldn't have stayed. 

We look in directions blank, 
Half frightened, yet boldly, too, 

And in moments did afterwards thank 
The Creator, for creating you. 

We knew that the change would come, 

Vast, like an open plain ; 
And what did it matter, to more than one, 

That I never saw you again? 

The slipping veil, that viciously 
Parts, and snaps and rends, 

Importuned Time can never send me ; 
And I take whatever it sends. 

In the fleeting visions which lasted 
In truth and in memory gray, 

Have fled, broken and blasted, 
Like clouds on a far-off day. 

1898. 

68 




THE MOUNTAIN 

EARLESSLY jutting into the sky, 

Into the sky (not the above) 
Clad in a dress of darkest green, 

Which to the west wind's call doth move, 
Whose eyelets are torrents brash 

(Verily, less eyelets than orbs) , 
In whose far reaching pathway 

Hillside and valley absorbs; 
Adding a luster unmeant, 
As if by chance 'twere sent. 

Heartless, forsooth, is the mountain of stone 

(I can tell by averted glance), 
As when o'erhead and underneath 

The setting sun in redness slants; 
The birds which circle now and then, 

And shriek in frightened accents shrill, 
And pierce the sea of sodden clouds 

When another storm is due, 

A requiem seem to call for you, 
But the requiem is for them. 

1898. 

69 



INDEX 



Page 

Elizabethan Days 3 

Passing By 5 

At the Bronx 6 

Hallowe'en 7 

The Choir Invisible .. . 8 

At Mammoth Rink 9 

The New Regime 10 

The Old Hackman's Lament 13 

Pathways 15 

The Cord of Hope 16 

Berlin 17 

The Pain that Lasts Through Life . . 18 

Red Dress 19 

Beech Tree Immortality 20 

My Valedictory 21 

Arbutus 22 

Magnolia 23 

And With What Measure Ye Mete*** 24 

The Mourning Dove 25 

Acquaintance 26 

Belated Telephone Girls 27 

The Last Driving Horse 28 

Two Visions — and a Reality 30 

In the Egyptian Museum at Berlin 31 

Clara Price 32 

The Mystic's Grave 33 



Page 

The Afternoon Train 35 

The Slashings 36 

New and Old Berlin 37 

Cassie George's Ghost 39 

The Country Church 41 

Lycoming Creek 42 

Spook Hill's Ghost 43 

The Peepers 44 

The Burnt Forest (Near Clearfield, Pa.) 45 

The Fair Lady Anna 46 

Valentine 47 

In Introspect 48 

The Stuffed Eagle 49 

The Span of Life 50 

The World of Now 51 

The Laws of Chance 52 

Memories 53 

The Tube Rose 54 

To , 1896-1904 55 

The Ferry-House at Hoboken 57 

The Drive 58 

Song to 59 

To a Lily of the Valley 61 

Death 62 

The Spirit of the Candle-Light 64 

Epitaph for a Dead Pine Tree 66 

That Evening 67 

False Love 68 

The Mountain 69 



1912 



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